The Gladiator Gambit

by Gavin Chappell

  Petrus swallowed visibly, and brushed sweat from his brow.

  ‘I’m not used to this,’ he muttered. ‘You must be familiar with it, being a prefect’s agent, but…’

  ‘I told you.’ Flaminius placed the amphora in its stand, ‘I don’t work for the prefect.’ He looked into Petrus’ eyes. ‘Let’s go for a little walk.’

  They ambled round the little arena, eyes on Camilla and Maccabeus. Syphax was talking quietly to Apuleius Victor, who was also watching the gladiatrix test the new acquisition.

  ‘So what have you found?’ asked Flaminius.

  ‘First tell me who you work for,’ Petrus said defiantly. ‘For all I know, you’re part of a syndicate.’

  ‘A syndicate?’ Flaminius didn’t know what he meant.

  Petrus nodded vigorously. ‘You know, criminals, gamblers,’ he said, and shrugged. ‘Or you could be working for a rival impresario.’

  Flaminius shook his head sadly. ‘I thought you were going to help me. As a favour to a friend.’ He looked meaningfully at Petrus. ‘I’ll never betray you, you know that.’

  The small arena echoed with the ring of steel on steel. Camilla had had the upper hand for some time, but now the new gladiator was fighting back. They started walking again.

  ‘I spoke with Syphax,’ Petrus said.

  ‘Syphax?’ Flaminius schooled himself against looking over at the murmillo, but glanced over involuntarily. The Nubian was oiling his sword. He looked up and their eyes briefly met. Flaminius looked at Petrus. ‘What did he have to say?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ Petrus said. He looked shamefacedly at Flaminius. ‘I can’t do this,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m no good. I tried to sound him out but I got nowhere.’ As he described his conversation with the murmillo during their earlier training session, Flaminius listened with interest. All intelligence was good intelligence, if only you knew how to sift it.

  ‘He didn’t rate Felix highly? Everyone else seems to have thought him a good gladiator.’ Had Syphax been jealous? Could that be the motive? Jealousy? Had Syphax drugged Felix’s pre-show drink? Was there no link between Felix’s death and the rebels? Flaminius considered what he had gleaned from his conversation with Camilla.

  ‘You see?’ Petrus said hopelessly. ‘I can’t do this. Anyway, what am I getting out of it?’

  ‘For that?’ Harshness was the answer. ‘Nothing much. My continued friendship, of course.’ Flaminius hated having to do this, but he needed someone who would work for him. He had no budget for more agents, so coercion was the only method he could use. Blackmail… a dirty word. But the end justifies any evil, as Sophocles said.

  Petrus gave him a haunted look. ‘I’ll try to do better in future,’ he promised. ‘And I won’t ask you whose agent you are. You might be working for the emperor himself, or for his worst enemy. I don’t care. But don’t expect too much of me.’

  ‘We can’t speak again,’ Flaminius instructed him. ‘Not like this. After the games I’ll introduce you to some of our ciphers and codes…Now we’d better start sparring.’ He put his helmet on and Petrus copied him.

  Camilla and Maccabeus had stopped fighting, and they were laughing and relaxing as they passed an amphora one to the other. Apuleius Victor watched disapprovingly.

  ‘Don’t get drunk,’ he said. ‘Carrying on like barbarians! You’ve got a show to put on after midday.’

  As he spoke, Petrus swung his sword at Flaminius. The clang of blade on blade as the Roman parried drowned out anything else the impresario might have to say. Apuleius Victor stood there mouthing until he gave up. As he walked out of the arena, Syphax rose and went to join him.

  Flaminius sparred with Petrus for some time, but his mind was elsewhere and Petrus managed to get past his guard several times. The weapons they used might have been blunt but they were still solid metal, and Flaminius was nursing several incipient bruises when he cried quarter. He got the distinct impression that Petrus was wreaking a covert revenge.

  ‘Enough!’ he laughed.

  His muscles were aching and his body was bruised. It was getting close to noon, and the arena was a suntrap. This being Alexandria in the dog days, that was no very good thing, and it was a relief to sit down on one of the seats in the shade at the side. Camilla and Maccabeus were already there, talking like old friends. Flaminius fanned at his hot face and rubbed his aches and bruises.

  Camilla turned to him. ‘Maccabeus knew Brutus!’ she said excitedly. ‘They fought together in Carthage.’

  ‘Those were the days,’ said Maccabeus. ‘Me and Brutus, we were last men standing in the games to celebrate the emperor’s accession. We were both freed, but decided to stay on. Fighting was the only life we knew! Good days. What, eight years back?’

  Camilla nodded. ‘We’ll never see his like.’

  Petrus sat down, grumbling. ‘Time for lunch. Where’s Apuleius Victor? He should do a better job of looking after his gladiators.’

  This inspired Maccabeus to launch into a long diatribe about the banquets he had attended in Carthage. The retiarius proved fond of reminiscences like these. Flaminius listened in silence for a while, then rose.

  Maccabeus glanced inquiringly up at him.

  ‘I’m going to see if I can find Apuleius Victor,’ Flaminius said. ‘Or at least the slave. I’m starving.’

  Leaving his helmet on the bench, he walked from the arena. Maccabeus’s receding drone was echoed by that of blowflies buzzing about the peristyle. The sun blazed down from a deep blue sky. He was glad when he reached the cool of the colonnade and could walk in the shadow of the fresco painted ceiling.

  No one was about. The silence of noon was eerie. He had grown up in Italy, where the siesta was also observed, but he had spent enough time in the cold North, in Britain and even Caledonia, to find the heat and quiet of noontime strange. He missed Britain’s rain, and its murderous inhabitants; some blue with woad, others with cold…

  Where was the slave? Or the impresario, for that matter? Or Syphax? Were they all asleep? Or had they gone somewhere else? The gladiators were going hungry due to their neglect.

  Entering the school Flaminius paced the long, silent corridors. He heard a susurrus of sound from somewhere up ahead. Voices speaking in hushed tones. He went in search of their owners.

  Outside the door to Apuleius Victor’s office he paused. This was the source of the sound. The door was built of thick holm oak, ornamented with cameos of the impresario’s ancestors. Flaminius put his ear to the wood, frowning as he strained to catch what the speakers were saying.

  He could only make out two voices. One was a deep rumble, the other lighter, but male, like the first. The second voice was imperative and domineering despite its lightness, the second defensive, conciliatory. But what were they saying?

  Flaminius grunted to himself in frustration, then clapped a hand over his mouth. He really didn’t want to be found here.

  The deeper voice was that of Syphax, he was certain. Was the other voice Apuleius Victor? There was a hectoring note to it characteristic of the man. The pair of them had left the training arena together. Now they were deep in conference. But about what? The wood was too thick! And crouching here, Flaminius was beginning to develop cramp.

  Who’d be an imperial agent?

  He got a grip on his temper and concentrated. Gradually, he began to pick out words that he recognised. It was Syphax’s muttering that he first decoded. As he listened, his eyes narrowed, and his fist unconsciously clenched.

  ‘…can’t abide snoops,’ Syphax seemed to be saying, followed by some indistinct murmuring which included, ‘…dealt with…threat…syndic—’

  At the last word Flaminius bit his lip. Syndic? Syndicate? Petrus had mentioned crime syndicates. Flaminius made lightning deductions. The river pirates of the Delta and the rebels from the desert…crime syndicates in the cities... could there be a link? He’d have to discuss it Ozymandias next time he got the chance.

  Apuleius Victor was talking now, but try as he
might, Flaminius couldn’t make out his words. After a pause, Syphax replied, ‘…know a way…people I know…get it for you…blade…’

  And again Apuleius Victor was speaking, and this time Flaminius heard, ‘…not in the…’ followed by a word that could have been “arena.” There was a padding of feet from behind him. Rising and spinning in one movement, he saw the slave plodding down the passage.

  The slave stared at him. Cold sweat broke out on Flaminius’ brow. He covered his disconcertion with bluster.

  ‘There you are!’ he said, approach. ‘Where’s our food? The gladiators are starving, and we’re almost due in the amphitheatre!’

  The slave gave Flaminius a questioning look. Had he seen him eavesdropping? But he just trudged away, with a ‘Yes, master,’ flung wearily over his shoulder.

  Flaminius heard sounds of movement from behind the door, a chair being pushed back across a stone floor, followed by footsteps. As the door began to open, Flaminius hurried away in the direction of the training arena. He had to prepare himself for the coming fight.

  —8—

  Nicopolis Amphitheatre, Alexandria, Roman Province of Egypt, 26th August 124 AD

  As he stepped out onto the arena sands, the heat and the light and the roar of the crowd hit Flaminius. It was like walking into a stone wall.

  Seeing rank upon rank of faces twisted by bloodlust and exhilaration, he felt his legs seem to give way under him. It was an illusion. He kept walking purposefully towards the imperial box, side by side with Camilla and Petrus, while Syphax and Maccabeus marched on either flank. He glanced left and right. Camilla flashed him a soft smile before lowering the visor of her Amazonian helmet and striding on, the sun striking highlights from her sleek, well-oiled flanks and her brief armour. Petrus wouldn’t meet his gaze, but hid behind the remorseless faceplate of his helmet. Fear grasped hold of Flaminius. He had felt like this yesterday, too; stage fright. Actors were said to get it. He felt more terrified than he had ever been waiting to go into battle. And perhaps he had good reason to fear for his life.

  He wished he had been able to hear more of the conversation between Syphax and Apuleius Victor. What he had discerned had not sounded good. The word that had stood out most had been ‘snoop.’ Had his cover been blown? Apuleius Victor had his own spies everywhere, it seemed. Had he learnt Flaminius’ identity? And now they were going to do what, kill him? While the gladiators had eaten their midday meal he had tried to dream up an excuse not to participate, but nothing came to him. Finally, he had decided to meet his destiny with courage and see where that got him. Fortune favours the brave.

  ‘Looking a bit peaky, Tiro,’ Camilla grunted. ‘Lower your helmet. It’s not the Lemuria[2]. The Roman ladies don’t want to see a dead man walking.’

  Flaminius wasn’t one to believe in omens and suchlike superstition. But the gladiatrix’s words seemed particularly inauspicious. He lowered his visor, and sweat ran down his face. Cold sweat.

  They reached the cool sand that lay in the shadow of the imperial box. Petrus brandished his sword, the others copied him, and Haterius Nepos gazed down censoriously. Flaminius wondered if the great man guessed that one of the gladiators beneath him was the imperial agent he had met last Saturnalia at the legionary camp .

  ‘Those about to die salute you!’

  Flaminius supressed a shudder at the traditional words. The gladiators fanned out across the sands of the arena. This time, it was a fight between individual members of the family. Maccabeus and Syphax fought on one side, Petrus defended himself against Flaminius and Camilla on the other. Blades rang, sparks flew. Flaminius’ heart raced. At least he was not yet fighting Syphax. Syphax had been ordered to kill him, he was certain. Apuleius Victor was part of the conspiracy, and he had identified Flaminius as a spy. This was the tribune’s final fight in the arena. At least he hadn’t been drugged.

  He brought his blade up to parry a blow from Camilla then leapt back. The sand crunched beneath his feet. Was this what had happened to Felix? Had he learnt too much?

  Camilla whipped into him with a series of savage cuts, while Petrus attacked from the other side. Flaminius felt afraid. Had he misjudged the situation? He fended off blow after clanging blow with sword and shield. The people he had counted as his closest comrades were conspiring against him. Were they all implicated? His breath came faster as he retreated, wheeling desperately to parry each attack. He could understand why Petrus might want to kill him. That was the main drawback with blackmail; the blackmailed were forced into a corner, and the only way out was death—for blackmailer or blackmailed.

  Flaminius wouldn’t be backed into a corner, not in this arena. The crowd was booing and giving the thumbs down, trying to influence the prefect into sealing his doom. He collided with the wall so rapidly that the impact rang through his helmet, slipped in the sand and fell.

  Petrus and Camilla stood on either side of him, their swords dazzling in the harsh afternoon sunlight. Painfully, Flaminius turned his helmeted head towards the imperial box. He wasn’t wounded but he was down. It could be enough to condemn him. He noticed the tiny figure of Haterius Nepos, remembered how the old bore had patronised him at that little get-together in headquarters last Saturnalia. The man’s arm was outstretched. He glanced at one of the other people in the box with him. Flaminius’ heart sank. It was Apuleius Victor.

  But the impresario shook his head and the prefect gave the thumbs up. Petrus and Camilla lowered their swords, and the gladiatrix extended a hand to help Flaminius to his feet.

  ‘What are you doing, you clown?’ she hissed. ‘Running away? If the crowd wanted a race, they’d go to the hippodrome. If they wanted a farce, they’d go to the theatre. They came to the amphitheatre to see a fight.’

  The gladiators returned to the open space beneath the imperial box. Syphax’s bare chest was scored with fresh cuts that dripped blood in the sand. But Maccabeus was unwounded.

  ‘Time for a change.’ Petrus indicated the crowd, which was showing its customary disapproval of mercy. ‘We don’t want them to get bored. Camilla, I want you fighting Maccabeus. Pity we don’t have any other gladiatrices; the mob loves a catfight. But you two get out there and draw blood, got that? Tiro, you fight me, understood?’

  Syphax pushed back his visor. ‘Come off it, Petrus. The new boy won’t give them a good show today. You and me, that’s what the mob wants to see. Tiro can give the woman some backup.’

  Petrus nodded and patted Syphax’s brawny black arm.

  ‘Good thinking, Nubian,’ he said. ‘Right, spread out.’ He stalked towards the centre of the arena, followed by Syphax.

  Maccabeus and Camilla fought fiercely and brutally, Flaminius hovered on the edges feeling useless. At least he was still alive. They had had their chance and not taken it. Of all people, Apuleius Victor had persuaded the prefect to give him the thumbs up. So had Flaminius misread the situation? Or were they saving him for some worse fate?

  Maccabeus swung a blow at Camilla and Flaminius darted in close, cutting low at Maccabeus’s ribs. His blade sliced though the retiarius’ flanks and blood clouded out the sweat and oil on his hide. Snarling, Maccabeus swung round, and Flaminius leapt high to evade a thrust from the retiarius’ trident. Camilla lunged in, her blade slicing into Maccabeus’s broad back.

  Growling, laughing, roaring, the retiarius swung round, whirling his net. He flung it, and as he did Flaminius aimed a cut at his thigh. The net swooped down on Camilla as she was turning to run and she fell flat to the sand, enmeshed in its weighted folds. Maccabeus felt Flaminius’ blade slice into him, and turned away from the prone Camilla to clout Flaminius across the helmet, wielding the trident like a bludgeon.

  Flaminius staggered backwards, unable to see, his helmet twisted so the eyeholes were askew. He tripped over his own sandaled feet and hit the sand hard again. The helmet snapped back into place. Maccabeus was looming over him, trident uplifted so he resembled an image of Neptune. Flaminius struggled to rise but he somehow felt
paralysed. It was all a terrible dream, the kind of nightmare where you try to move but for some reason are incapable.

  The trident whistled as it plummeted down, but even as it did, a figure hurtled into Maccabeus and sent him sprawling. The trident sank into the sand beside Flaminius’ helmeted head. He rolled over, all paralysis gone, and leapt into a crouch.

  Camilla stood over Maccabeus, the folds of the net in the sand beside her. She looked appealingly up at the prefect’s box. Flaminius rose and followed her gaze, and yet Haterius Nepos’ attention was not on the three-cornered combat, but on the fight between Petrus and Syphax in the middle of the arena.

  They had been fighting hard. Syphax’s shield had been battered, his helmet was dented. Petrus had nothing more than a long cut across his breast. The crowd was shouting out the Thracian’s name, ‘Petrus! Petrus! Petrus!’ chanting it like votaries of some barbaric faith. Blades clashed, fighters grunted, blood dripped onto the sand.

  Now the prefect’s attention was drawn away from the duel. Camilla still stood over the prone Maccabeus. Again Haterius Nepos was prevailed upon to be merciful. This fight was to whet the appetite of the crowd; the next family to come on would be fighting to the death. Petrus downed Syphax, and again the prefect gave the thumbs up, Flaminius realised that the fight was over. He had survived. Somehow, he had survived.

  The crowd was booing and yelling. It had hardly been the best of fights, but as the gladiators cleaned their weapons in the bloody sand and limped back towards the gates where even now Apuleius Victor had come to meet them, Flaminius felt nothing but relief.

  Petrus groaned, and fell forward to hit the sand with a thud.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Camilla cried out. Maccabeus crouched at Petrus’ side, then scrambled away as Petrus vomited copiously.

  Apuleius Victor took charge. ‘Two of you, get him inside. He’s clearly unwell.’